


your love is bright as ever (baby love me lights out)

by tomorrows



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Talk Show, Body Worship, Face-Fucking, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, OT5 Friendship, harry is jimmy fallon, holiday fic(ish), idk man this is entirely self indulgent, louis is justin timberlake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrows/pseuds/tomorrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's got a late night talk show, Louis' got a couple of Grammys, they're best friends who like to kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your love is bright as ever (baby love me lights out)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know how this happened but this fic was a bitch to write and was only completed to prove to myself that writers block ain't shit
> 
> title (obviously) is from Beyonce's XO
> 
> sorry to anyone who doesn't watch Late Night with Jimmy Fallon or isn't hopelessly enamored by Jimmy/JT because this fic is basically inspired by them
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://tornorrows.tumblr.com/) as tornorrows!

Harry wakes up on the second Sunday of July and thinks, this is it. He’s finally going to man up, grow a pair, and call Louis. If he has to beg and plead, offer his firstborn and an I-O-U, then so be it. So what if he hasn't seen Louis since that charity function that Niall hosted a couple of weeks ago? Harry’s not sure if the best time to check up on a friend is when you need a favor, but - actually. No, he’s pretty positive that’s not the best time to check up on a friend.

And it doesn’t help that the last time Harry had seen Louis they’d gotten spectacularly drunk and done a spontaneous performance of the first three parts of R. Kelly’s Trapped In The Closet. They’d raised an extra thirty grand for Niall’s charity and Louis had kissed him right on stage, so Harry considers it a win-win. (He remembers the kiss, too, a quick smack of the lips, sticky sweet from champagne and Baked Alaska underneath the crystal chandeliers of the Waldorf.) If it were anyone else, Harry thinks, they probably wouldn’t have been able to get away with it, but Louis Tomlinson is universally adored. Pisses gold and can do wrong, according to everyone in the business; the only ex-boybander to ever make a name for himself in the history of the human race.

Which is why Harry has spent the last two weeks purposely avoiding this very phone call. He’s about to grab his phone off the bedside table and just get it over with when his stomach growls. A sign from God, he reasons. This is potentially the most important phone call of his career and God is telling him that he definitely can’t do this on an empty stomach.

So he has breakfast, instead, but somehow breakfast turns into a shower, and in the middle of the shower Harry realizes that he actually wants to take a bubble bath instead. And during his bath he finds himself making a list of all the groceries he needs, which is how grocery shopping turns into overspending on wine. And, of course, because he’s now got his wine cabinet filled, that gives him a good enough reason to drink half a bottle for lunch before finally collapsing on his couch and making The Call.

It’s been a long day, to say the least, the summer heat remorseless with the city of New York, and somehow Harry ends up subconsciously calling Niall instead.

“Ni! Hey, it’s—” he manages to get out in a shaky breath before he’s quickly interrupted.

“Shut the fuck up and call Louis,” Niall says, immediately proceeding to hang up.

Harry stares at his phone for a second. Maybe he can call his mom and ask her to phone Louis for him. That seems like a totally viable option. Louis loves his mom. His mom has Louis cradling a puppy as her phone's lockscreen photo. He could totally get his mom to take one for the team.

And as if Niall is reading his mind, Harry’s phone buzzes then with a text. ‘ _Dont u bring Anne into this_ ’ it reads. God, Niall is right, and his text is the last push that Harry needs before he finally taps on Louis’ name - a suggestive reference to his penis that Louis himself had typed in and deemed necessary - heart in his throat as he listens to the phone ring.

“Harold, my love! What can I do for you on this fine day?”

Louis’ voice is bright, easy and Harry tries to bite back his smile, doesn’t want Louis to actually hear how stupidly eager and nervous and giddy he is. He gets enough shit from Niall as it is.

“Louis,” he sighs. “The light of my life, the fire of my loins, the—”

On the other end of the line he hears Louis giggle. “What do you need, Styles?”

Louis tries to come off as intimidating a lot, especially with Harry, but anyone who actually knows him knows that he’s quite the opposite. It’s just that no one tells him otherwise because Louis’ probably aware of it himself. He and Harry are equally known for their contagious laugh and infectious personalities, but Louis, Harry thinks, is universally adored by, like, everyone. Music industry, Hollywood, little kids and their mothers - fathers now, too, since he’s come out. No one is really safe when it comes to Louis Tomlinson, and that whole tough-guy act he tries to put up is entirely useless. Everyone is hopelessly enamored by him, no matter.

“So,” Harry coughs awkwardly into the speaker. “You, uh, you know how I’m taking over the Late Night show in a few weeks, right?”

“Shit, yeah!” Harry can almost feel Louis sit up in his seat hundreds of miles away in California. “Niall called me a few days ago and it came up, actually.”

“Oh, fuck. He didn’t,” Harry groans. “Please tell me he didn’t drunk dial you again.”

Harry’s known Niall since he first came down to New York, back when he was a fresh-faced-and-barely-legal comedian who’d dropped out of college because Niall had got him an audition at SNL. Niall had been an easy favorite during his years at SNL and he’s going to be a great announcer for Late Night with Harry Styles, but if he continues to drunk dial everyone in his phonebook there isn’t going to _be_ a show to drunkenly prattle on about.

“Nah,” Louis says. “He wasn’t drunk, I don’t think. But I never really know with him. He holds his alcohol too well for me to differentiate between sober-Niall and drunk-Niall. They might actually be the same person, don’t you think?”

“Did he read you the history of his family line again?” Harry asks. “I told him not to do that anymore, I swear. We had an intervention last month and everything, I don’t know why he keeps—”

“No worries, Haz,” Louis giggles. “He only got about a century back before I hung up on him.”

Harry laughs, cheeks blushing pink and tummy settling a little from the nerves. They go off on a silly tangent from there, something about the Horan family - The Horan _Dynasty_ , as Louis refers to them - and its misfortunes before Harry remembers why he’s calling Louis Tomlinson, Grammy award winning musician, on a Sunday afternoon in the first place.

“God, I miss that bastard Horan,” Louis sighs. “I feel like I haven’t seen him in ages. Has he still got those frosted tips of his?”

And this is it, Harry thinks, this is his chance.

“Nah, he’s gone back to his natural state. Lou refuses to dye his hair anymore. Apparently there’s an age limit to frosted tips, but,” Harry draws out the word, “you would know that if you bothered coming down for a visit more than once every ten months or whatever.”

Louis snickers on the other end of the line, a little humorlessly.

“Fancy old Hollywood’s not exactly eager to share you yet, huh?” Harry asks. He wouldn’t be eager to share Louis either, if he were Hollywood.

“Oh, come on now, H. You know New York will always be my first love.”

Harry takes a sip of his orange juice, moves his phone to the other ear. “I thought _I_ was your first love, Louis Tomlinson. Have you been playing me this whole time? Do I mean nothing to you?” Harry gasps into the phone loudly for the full effect, clutching his heart as if Louis were there to see him.

“My deepest apologies,” Louis says in a sardonic voice. “You know you hold the key to my heart and all that jazz, whatever you wanna call it. S'only you, babe.”

Harry huffs. “I don’t know, Lou. I don’t appreciate the sarcasm and it doesn’t seem like you _really_ mean it.”

“Would you like me to write a song proclaiming my love, then?” Louis suggests.

Harry smiles to himself. “That would be a good first step, probably.”

There’s the sound of paper rustling on the other end before Louis speaks up again. “Okay, which do you prefer? A rap about your cute little butt or a power ballad about your curly locks?”

Harry barks a loud laugh, nearly dropping his phone in the process. “I don’t see why you should have to choose, knowing how strongly you feel about both. Although, it _would_ be a shame if you never had the chance to, say, perform these said love songs, you know,” Harry coughs into his fist, “and proclaim your undying devotion for me in front of the whole world. I think I know a few late night shows who would love to have you on, if you’re interested.”

And if there’s anything Harry Styles is not, it is subtle.

“Oh, really now?” Harry can practically hear Louis raising his eyebrow and smirking. “Would you happen to know if Nick’s free sometime this week?”

“Louis.”

“I know Greg has this whole live concert series thing he does—”

“Lou.”

“Which would be great because you know how much I _love_ the guys here in LA—”

“Lou, _please_ ,” Harry whimpers, unable to keep the pout off of his face.

Louis giggles, seemingly pleased with himself for the day. “You know you’re my favorite, H. Greg and the guys here have got nothing on you, promise.”

“Not even Nick?” he asks.

“Especially not Grimshaw.”

“So you’ll, like.” Harry goes to bite at the corner of his thumbnail before noticing that he’s already bitten it to the nub, disappointingly. “Will you, like, come on for the first show then, Lou?” he asks nervously, quieter this time. “Like, just as the musical guest or something. And it won’t be until late August, so you don’t have to fly out right away or anything. And, like, if it conflicts with your schedule, you don’t have to ‘cause I know you’re—”

“Harold.” Louis interrupts him.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask since, like, the fucking day you got the gig. I’ve already bought my plane ticket and everything. Fucking took you long enough, you dweeb.”

Harry collapses on the couch and exhales a sigh of relief. He’s never been so grateful to be so in sync with someone the way he is with Louis Tomlinson.

“You’re my favorite washed-up ex-boybander ever, do you know that?” Harry say when he’s finally caught his breath.

“Hey, now,” Louis huffs in mock offense. “I’ve seen your iTunes library, Curly, and I distinctly recall my entire discography in there. Don’t give me that ex-boybander crap considering your last Halloween costume.”

Harry blushes, because so what? He’d dressed up as one-third of Hanson last year. That’s, like, an extremely common Halloween costume. And besides, friends download friends’ discographies. It’s, like, a fact of life, and Harry Styles is nothing if not the world’s most supportive friend.

“You’re still my favorite, though,” he says. “Washed-up ex-boybander or not.”

Louis may be an ex-boybander, but he’s the furthest thing from washed-up and they both know that.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis mumbles. “That’s what they all say.”

“Nah,” Harry shrugs as he opens his eyes. There’s a weird water spot on his ceiling and the air conditioning is about ten degrees too low in his apartment right now, but Louis’ voice is soothing through it all. “You know I love you the most. More than everyone else loves you. Jay has got nothing on me, I hope she knows.”

And Harry knows Louis well enough to know that he's rolling his eyes, fighting back a stupid grin because he’s still not used to the compliments or declarations of love. Too many years in the limelight have toughened Louis’ skin, taught him better, and made him assume that all the nice words are nothing more than an attempt by others to sweet-talk their way into something bigger.

“You only love me because I write songs about your butt,” Louis finally says with a serious voice that has Harry bursting into a loud laugh.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t already written a dozen songs about my butt, Lou. I’ve seen your notebooks.”

Louis is quiet for a couple of seconds. “I can neither confirm nor deny any of that,” he mumbles.

“Love you, too, Louis,” Harry says. “Even if you only love me for my body.”

“As lovely as your bottom is, Styles, I’d much rather hear about The Horan Dynasty,” Louis says before promptly hanging up.

•••••

Harry’s got NBC's 12:37 spot after Nick Grimshaw, a time slot that isn’t exactly fought for when it comes to late night television. It’s a well known fact that 11 o’clock is the golden hour to have - anything afterward means your only viewers are insomniacs and college students. Which happen to be Harry’s entire fanbase anyways, so he’s not worried about his time slot and its viewers.

At 26, he’s the youngest talk show host that NBC has ever had, but four years at SNL with the likes of Niall Horan have destroyed any ego that Harry could have built. It’s not like he’d been aiming to break some sort of record when he signed his 5-year contract for the show. It was just a simple _fuck_ , yes, because not only did he have a job, but it was his own God damn talk show.

He’s kind of scared shitless, though, because SNL was a weekly thing - you start on Tuesday and end on Saturday - but a talk show means every single day. He’s been in a couple of romantic comedies (and one Sundance film written and directed by James Franco where he played Michael Cera’s paralyzed step-dad, but he chooses not to bring that up for obvious reasons), but he’s never been the lead of something. He’s never had his fucking name in the title of something that wasn't an SNL skit, never had the responsibility of something _this big_ on his shoulders.

It’s his young age and inability to take himself seriously that had landed him the gig, NBC desperate to get back on their feet after the Nick Grimshaw/Greg James fiasco for the 11:30 spot that had resulted with Greg in the west coast, on a rival network, with the 11 o’clock time slot. Nick’s been getting shit for a while now, carrying most of the blame from the debacle, and NBC had been eager to clear up any residual tension.

Hence, the appointment of ‘one of their own,' as Niall had referred to it; Harry Styles, who’d just recently ended a four year stint on Saturday Night Live.

•••••

“Haz - Harry. Harold.”

Harry tries to focus on the sound of Louis’ voice as he exhales into the brown paper bag, fingers cold and shaking. It’s minutes before the first taping of his own show, Late Night with Harry Styles, and he’s having a panic attack in the fucking toilets like a child. The thought of that alone, the shame combined with the fear, grips Harry’s lungs even more tightly.

“Christ, H,” Louis says as he sits down on the dirty tiles next to him. He presses the back of his palm against Harry’s overheated forehead and frowns. “You need to stop before you make yourself sick, Harry, come on now, babe.”

Louis slowly loosens Harry’s grip around the brown bag and pulls it away from his mouth. Harry’s only been in the business for a couple of years now, since his start on SNL, but Louis’ been acting and singing and dancing since he could spell his name. So he knows what it’s like to freeze up minutes before going on stage to do something you _know_ you’re capable of. It hasn’t happened to him in a while, but he remembers the first time he had _properly_ met Harry - not all those times on SNL - backstage at some award show that Harry was hosting. He remembers Harry’s pale face and jittery hands, the mirror image of himself right now.  

“I feel like an idiot,” Harry confesses when his breathing has slowed down a little. He feels even more miserable for admitting it to Louis, who probably just thinks he’s a joke.

Louis brushes a loose curl from his face, tucks it back into his purposely sloppy do. “You’re about to tape the first episode of your brand spankin’ new show,” he says. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you want, it’s okay.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Tomlinson.” Harry rolls his eyes. “You could probably do this in your sleep and still end up being nominated for an Emmy.”

Louis chuckles. “I’d win that Emmy, too.”

Harry punches him in the shoulder - because he knows it’s true. Louis’ hosted SNL three times already and won an Emmy for each one, despite the fact that he’s a damn musician. That’s his forte - the singing and the dancing. He’s not supposed to be comedic gold, too. It’s not _fair_. And it’s not fair that Louis’ had to help him out of this pathetic mess on more than one occasion.

“Thank you for doing this, by the way,” Harry mumbles as he crosses his arms over his knees, trying to make himself smaller, like the same will happen to his problems. “I know you’re working on your album and there’s that movie—”

“If you don’t stop thanking me, Harry, I’m actually going to lock you in here and steal your show.”

Harry rolls your eyes. “I think everyone would prefer that at this rate.”

This time Louis punches Harry in the arm, hard enough to bruise. “There’s gonna be more of that if you don’t stop that self-deprecating shit, Haz.” He hopes it’s a big, purple bruise on Harry’s arm, something like a reminder the next time he decides to be a little shit. “You’ve got Robert De Niro out there waiting to be interviewed by you - do you know how many people get the greatest actor of our time on the first episode of their television show? Do you?”

Harry’s guilty pout is the only response that Louis needs. He jumps to his feet and brushes himself off, sighing when Harry looks up at him, wide-eyed and biting the corner of his lip.

 _Stupid plump lips_ , Louis thinks. “Come on now, Styles. You’ve got a show to host.”

He sticks his hand out for Harry who drops his eyes to Louis’ small, delicate hands before fitting his own much bigger one over it. Louis pulls him up to his feet and gathers Harry close to his chest. Blue bore into green when he speaks again.

“You’re gonna be great, yeah? Tell me you’re gonna be great,” Louis demands softly.

Harry quickly glances from Louis’ eyes, to his lips, to the bathroom door, and then back to Louis’ baby blues. “M’gonna be great,” he mumbles weakly.

“Okay, now say it like you actually mean it.”

Louis slips his fingers in between Harry’s, both hands now entwined with his. Harry doesn’t even notice until his hands stop shaking and then he’s glancing down to where their fingers are laced together. Something like teenage giddiness bubbles in his chest.

“I’m going to fucking _kill_ it,” he laughs with a roll of his eyes.

“Gonna host the shit outta Late Night, aren’t you?”

Louis is smiling back at him. Grinning, actually, because he’s so fucking proud of Harry for getting here and he needs Harrry to know that. Know that he’s got more than enough people on his side.

“I’m gonna host the fucking _shit_ outta Late Night,” Harry says with confidence.

“And you’re gonna interview the fuck outta De Niro, yeah?”

Harry breaks into laughter, eyes wet with a different kind of tears now. Louis laughs more quietly and pulls him into his arms. “We’re both fucking idiots, honestly,” he manages to say between giggles.

Harry buries his face into the crook of Louis’ neck where the crisp, beige collar of his button-up hugs the curve of his body. Louis smells like the stale, dusty scent of NBC Studios and Red Bull. Harry inhales deeply because Louis also smells like comfort, mostly.

“I like being an idiot with you,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ shirt, cheeks heating up with the confession.

Louis tightens his arms around Harry’s broad shoulders and sighs, pressing a small kiss to the top of his head. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere, then.”

Harry holds on to Louis’ waist more securely and tries to make himself smaller in his arms, smiling as he presses a kiss to the jut of Louis’ sharp collarbone. He’s got the first taping of his own late night talk show to host in about twenty minutes and Robert De Niro to interview the shit out of, but right now, swaying in the dingy toilets of NBC Studios with Louis Tomlinson, Harry feels like time’s stood still for him, given him a chance to catch his breath.

•••••

The problem with late night talk shows, Louis thinks, is that they’re a daily thing. Also, they’re actually taped in the afternoon, which means that the entire morning is spent on writing and run-throughs, and the rest of the day is spent brainstorming for tomorrow’s show. Evidently this also means no celebratory drinks after Harry’s first show.

“This is a six hundred dollar bottle of _Scotch_ , Harold!” Louis says in horror.

Harry had walked into his office, saw Louis at his desk with the Scotch, and immediately had said a stern, “ _No_.”

Harry ignores Louis’ protests and continues walking around his office, loosening his tie and throwing it over the back of his chair - the chair that Louis has claimed for himself. Louis watches as Harry changes into more comfortable clothes, striping right down to his tiny black briefs, smooth, endless legs on display for only a second before he puts on a pair of shorts. Jean shorts, nonetheless, and a stupid shirt with ponies on it.

“We can’t get drunk in the middle of the day, Lou. We’ve still got an entire week left to tape and then two more before the real ratings come in,” Harry points out. “We may not even have anything to celebrate, probably.”

He shrugs his shoulders and turns to face Louis as he puts on a pair of thick-framed glasses. Studious Harold with his jean shorts and pony shirt, ready to write penis jokes for a living.

“And don’t think I forgot about the last time you tried to get me drunk, by the way,” he says.

Louis rolls his eyes. He gets Harry banned from the set of Good Morning America _one_ time, and all of sudden he’s not allowed to spike Harry’s orange juice at breakfast or let him streak across Times Square.

“I don’t understand why you still hold that against me,” Louis huffs. “That video has, like, ten million views on YouTube. It’s even mentioned on your Wikipedia page.”

And Harry knows that. Niall had been kind enough to play it for the entire crew during breakfast. And then he had played it right before the run-through. And then before the taping. And during commercial break, to Robert _fucking_ De Niro. And then _after_ the taping, ten minutes ago. He can only _imagine_ how it got to ten million views.

“Did _you_ add it to my Wikipedia page?” Harry asks, eyebrow quirked where he stands in front of his desk, hands on his hips.

“Of course I added it to your Wikipedia page, Curly. It’s your second greatest accomplishment yet.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “And what would my first greatest accomplishment be?”

“Befriending me, obviously,” Louis answers.

Harry would argue with that on any other day, he totally would, but they’ve got a skit to record for tomorrow’s show so he settles for grabbing the bottle of Scotch out of Louis’ hands and placing it on the top of his shelf, where he knows Louis won’t be able to reach it.

“No Scotch until the weekend,” Harry warns.

It takes all of four seconds for Louis to cross the office and crowd up behind him, where Harry can feel him struggle to get on his tip-toes, huffing curse words under his breath directly aimed at Harry.

“I don’t appreciate you treating me like a child, Styles,” Louis grumbles.

Harry turns to face him with a wide, shit-eating grin. Louis Tomlinson is two years older and an armful of Grammys more successful, but at least Harry’s got a few inches on him. That, and he quite likes the way Louis’ lithe, compact body feels crowding him, chest pushed square against his own as he stretches himself out, fingers just barely grazing the top shelf in earnest.

“Any luck there?” Harry asks, because he knows Louis won’t be able to get the bottle down any time soon.

Louis huffs. “You can fuck off if you think I’m going to share with you now.”

“Okay, okay, settle down now, princess," Harry laughs as he grabs Louis by the hips and forces him flat on his feet. A voice in the back of his mind desperately wishes that he hadn’t forced Louis to wear a stupid dress shirt this morning, properly tucked into his pants and everything. Kind of wishes he hadn’t forced Louis to wear _anything_ , actually.

Louis crosses his arms. “You know that I’m just going to wait for you to walk out before I grab it, right?”

“And you’re also going to end up breaking your neck using my chair as a stool, so.”

Louis' frown deepens, blue eyes doing their best to glare. “I’m not leaving New York until we finish that bottle, Harry.”

“Guess you’re stuck here, then,” Harry shrugs. “Better inform your pals back in Hollywood. I'm afraid we’ve stolen their golden boy, it seems.”

To Harry’s surprise, Louis tips his head to the side and does that thing where he smirks, doesn’t want to, and ends up pursing his lips in an attempt to hide his fondness. Harry’s quite used to being on the receiving end of that smile, is also quite in love with it if he’s honest.

Louis takes a step closer, crowding up against Harry once more. There's a wicked glint in his bright eyes when he speaks, voice cool in its words, warm in its breath.

"You could've had me on my knees right now if we'd had a bit to drink, you know."

And Harry knows what Louis is trying to do to him - break any sense of control he might have until he's a heaping pile of mush and Louis' downed a fifth of Scotch. But not this time, Harry thinks. He's going to maintain his resolve this time and he's _not_ going to give in, not even when Louis steps closer and brushes his lips against Harry's.

He gives himself a second to focus, clear his head, before he says in a voice much more convincing than he’d thought he was even capable of, "Could've had you on knees without the Scotch. We both know that."

A familiar longing coils in Harry's groin, the image of Louis on his knees never one that's been easy to dismiss. _Louis_ , dressed in his so fucking _proper_ and prim dress clothes, on his knees for Harry, mouthing at his cock with sober lips. _Louis_ , on his knees, in Harry's too-big office with the big bay windows for the hazy New York sunshine to highlight his cheekbones and give tourists looking up a quick glance of _Louis, on his knees_.

And Harry isn't even surprised when Louis completely breaks the spell.

"Think if you come in those jean shorts we could get eleven millions views?" he whispers in a quick breath before stepping away and barking a loud laugh, unable to control himself.

"You're such a dick," Harry groans.

Louis' managed to get him both half hard in his ridiculous fucking jean shorts _and_ laugh at himself for doing so. There is no end.

Louis presses a quick kiss to Harry's mouth, a little smack of the lips like he always does, before flitting off to the door with a laugh.

"That's why you keep me around, sunshine!" he sings.

 •••••

Louis has a nice studio apartment in the Upper East Side, one with an empty fridge and an equally empty wine cabinet, which is how he talks his way into staying at Harry’s place for the rest of his week-long stay in New York. He doesn’t so much as _talk_ his way into it as he does catch a cab with Harry after work and just… not leave. He’d come straight to the show from the airport that morning, so he’s got his suitcase with him and Harry, bless his soul, has the decency to say nothing of it when Louis dumps his suitcase in the corner of his bedroom.

And that’s it. They order some pizza, watch an excessive amount of television - homework, as Harry refers to it - and when Harry’s eyes get droopy during their fifth episode of Amish Mafia Louis drags both of their bodies to his bed, presses a kiss to his sleep-soft lips, and falls asleep curled around his body.

 •••••

The rest of the week goes much like the first day of the show, the air in the studio heavy with nerves and excitement, almost palpable at times. They’ve managed to score a couple of pretty big celebrities and a handful of indie bands and even though Louis is on set every day, their biggest show by far is on Friday, when Yankees pitcher Liam Payne and R&B-sensation-turned-Gucci-model Zayn Malik stop by. Zayn’s working on some tunes with Louis, Niall is what the Yankees refer to as their “honorary mascot,” and Harry is a pile of mush and stardust. Still, it’s the most stressful, exciting, and nerve-wrecking week of Harry’s life and he wants to live it on repeat for the rest of his life, can barely believe that he actually can.

And Harry is jittery all week, wiggling and jumping about, nervously biting at his nails. Thankfully, though, Louis is there to take care of him. He gets Harry into bed every night, makes sure to properly cuddle him and everything, and when they get to the studio together the next morning Louis will sit next to Harry and the writers, palm warm and steady on Harry’s shaky thigh for as long as he needs him. He adds in little remarks and ideas, more quiet and reserved than he normally is, letting Harry and Ed, the head writer of the show, do most of the work. He pitches the idea of a weekly thank you notes segment that Harry loves, earning Louis a smack on the lips and a wide, excited grin.

And usually by the time they’re ready for the first run-through Harry’s thigh has stopped shaking altogether.

 •••••

“Don’t touch my fucking nachos, Harry, I swear to God.”

“Just one, Niall, come on. Don't be such a—”

“ _No_ ,” Niall throws his body over his nachos and makes a protective wall with his arms. “You’ve got all those fucking germs from kissing Louis all day and I don’t want you getting me infected.”

Harry tugs at Niall’s arms, trying his best to pry them open. “Are you seriously worried about catching cooties?” he huffs incredulously. “I’m not trying to impregnate you, Niall, shit. I just want a damn nacho. Do you seriously not know how cooties work?”

“Sorry I haven’t got my PhD in fucking Cootie Studies, Professor Harold—”

Louis kind of tunes the two of them out after that, but he doesn’t stop watching. It’s Friday night, finally, which means that the first week of Late Night with Harry Styles has officially been completed and from what Twitter has been saying, it’s been a fucking success. Louis’ sitting across from Niall and Harry with Liam to his left and Zayn to his right, the entire crew of LNHS having taken over the crowded pub a couple blocks away from the studio. Ed and the show’s live band are doing a surprisingly nostalgic rendition of Britney Spears’ Toxic, Lou, the head makeup artist, is telling baby stories by the bar, and in front of Louis, Niall and Harry are bickering about nachos and cooties.

It’s the complete opposite of what Louis is used to California, where he was in the midst of recording before he flew over to New York. He much prefers this setting to the empty echoes against his mansion walls, endless red carpet events he has to pretend to be interested in.

New York is so different from LA in a way that Louis has trouble putting into words, even after all these years. He’s more familiar with California, having spent most of his childhood and adolescence there, but he feels connected to the east coast, New York especially, tied down to the city by an anchor. There’s nowhere in the world quite like New York, no city nearly as fast or hectic or restless, where Louis can walk down the street in the middle of the day and be nobody. He likes that about New York, likes that he can be just another number to the rising population as long as he pays his rent, supports the Knicks, and doesn’t steal anyone's cab.

New York also as Harry, who Louis’ become far too attached to these last few years, but that's a different story.

“Here, cutie.” Louis pushes his plate of nachos across the table. “You can have a nacho.”

Harry looks up from where he’s got Niall in a headlock, eyes wide and glassy from the three beers he’s already downed. He glances at the nachos in front of him and stares at it sternly for a few seconds before breaking into a wide grin and leaning across the table to kiss Louis right in the mouth. When Harry sits back in his seat Louis notes Niall’s quirked eyebrow, can practically _feel_ Zayn ready to make a smart remark.

“You two do that a lot, don’t you?” Niall says after a few moments of silence, attempting nonchalance.

“Do what a lot?” Harry asks with his mouth full.

Liam nudges Louis in the shoulder. “I don’t know? _Blatantly make out at any given opportunity?_ ”

“We do not _make out_ , Liam.” Louis rolls his eyes and nudges him right back, a little rough because the man's a damn Yankee, he can handle it. “I like to kiss all of my favorite people. It's, like, a sign of respect, or whatever,” he shrugs. “What about it?”

“You never kiss me,” Niall points out.

“That’s because you think I have cooties, remember?”

“And also you don’t share your nachos,” Harry reminds him.

Louis looks across the table and catches Harry’s eyes, the same smirk mirrored on his lips. They do kiss a lot, is the thing, but Louis kisses everyone - he’s kissed Zayn on multiple occasions, would kiss Liam if he didn’t have his steroid-ridden panties in a twist all the time - and Harry just so happens to be on the receiving end of them more often than not. They’re just short pecks and loud smacks, _good morning_ s and _that’s a funny joke, babe_ s, like a pat on the back or something. It’s, like, French and shit. Besides, Louis’ never kissed Harry with open lips and loose tongues - hasn’t kissed _anyone_ like that in a while - so it doesn't matter anyways. It’s nice what he has with Harry, easy and warm even if it doesn’t make that much sense.

“You two literally make no fucking sense,” Niall rules with his mouth full of nachos. “I understand nothing.”

Harry puts an arm around him and grins even wider. “What else is new?”

Niall pinches his nipples and that’s the end of the conversation.

So Harry and Louis are pals that kiss. It’s nothing.

•••••

Louis flies back to LA the next morning and Harry wakes up to an empty bed for the first time in a week. On his bedside table there’s the bottle of six hundred dollar Scotch, a post-it attached to it that reads, _You’re lucky I’m feeling generous! Save this for when you actually get me on my knees ;) Good luck with the show Curly!!! Big love!! x_.

•••••

Late Night with Harry Styles continues and when the more thorough ratings and polls come in two weeks later, they surpass everyone’s expectations. Harry brings in almost as many viewers as Nick, despite the fact that he’s on at a much less favorable hour. It’s not that the expectations were low for Harry, it’s just that the execs didn’t expect for his show to pick up quite as fast, not with his audience of insomniacs and poor college students.

Harry’s got a charm to him that is easy to pick up on, even easier to be attracted toward. He’s got a slow drawl with his words that completely goes against his bright smile and loud laugh. And he’s younger than the rest of his competition, so high schoolers and college students leans toward him more easily over the more tense air on Greg and Nick’s shows.  

Harry’s four years at SNL were defined by two things: the short, wordy tunes that he would play with his guitar, and his inability to keep a straight face during skits. During his time there he specialized in dad jokes, lewd puns, and crossdressing - partly because of the lack of women, but also because he fucking loved it. Unsurprisingly, all of these things - along with Niall - follow him to his show.

They do lots of ridiculous sketches and games on the show, most of them entirely senseless and borne from drunken 3AM texts courtesy of the one and only Niall Horan. Harry likes to challenge his guests to games like pictionary and the egg version of Russian Roulette and beer pong. His favorite, though, is a sketch called Jacob’s Patience, where him and the guest do an entire scene using mannequin arms instead of their own. It’s a mess most of the time and Harry never keeps a straight face, but he loves improv, especially when mannequin arms are involved.

Most of the live acts that come are indie bands, lesser known artists that Harry wants to put the spotlight on. He’s grateful for everyone that comes on and he knows that he sounds like a broken record with his excited _thanks you!!_ ’s and _awesome!!_ ’s, but he wants to make sure that no one leaves the show thinking lesser of him and his crew. Harry’s genuine likeability is what he’s typically known for in the industry and he doesn’t want anyone to get the idea in their head that it’s some sort of act.

He doesn’t see Louis after the first week of the show, but that’s nothing new. They kind of work that way, disappearing for weeks on end, burying themselves in their careers and only managing to come up for air in order to send a text or an email. Harry misses Louis cuddles and his infectious laughter, finds himself thinking a lot about Louis’ lips and the way the sun had dotted his nose with freckles the last time he’d seen him. That feeling’s not new, either, but it’s starting to become too familiar the way Harry wants to share his show, his success, with Louis, like he’s as much a part of it as Niall or Ed.

While Harry’s got the show, Louis is in the midst of recording his third album, a two-part project he wants to put out by spring of next year. Harry knows what Louis gets like when he’s making music - obsessive, overly-detailed, zombiesque. Louis will play the same meter forty times until it sounds just right, sing the same note a hundred times until his voice gets hoarse. When Louis submerges, he doesn’t come up for air, not until he needs to. He sinks, anchors himself with a heavy heart, and drowns himself in his work only until his bones ache and he needs to feel the sun kiss his skin.

•••••

Around the time that LNHS records their 50th episode they go on a holiday break and Harry, Niall, and Liam fly out to California for Louis’ birthday. It’s not like Louis’ planned a birthday party - or even invited them over, per se - but Harry hasn’t heard from him in a few weeks and he just needs to make sure Louis’ still alive. Jay had informed him a couple of days ago that Louis had left LA and gone up to his apartment in Sacramento to do some writing for the album, so when Louis finally opens the door Harry has to fight back a gasp.

The same can’t be said for Niall, however.

“Shit, dude, you look like hell. What the fuck happened to you?”

“ _Niall_.” Liam smacks him in the arm. “Don’t be such a dick.”

Louis stands at the doorway, face pale and eyes droopy, sweater hanging off his shoulders, two sizes too big. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days and the smoke alarm is blaring inside his apartment.

“Are you gonna let us in?” Niall asks, wide-eyed.

Louis snaps out of his daze and steps to the side, opening the door. “Shit, yeah, come in. Sorry about the… You know.”

“Is your apartment on fire?” Harry asks when he walks in after Liam and Niall. He doesn’t think twice about dropping his bag by the door and immediately cupping Louis’ face in his hands. “ _Fuck_ , did you set your apartment on fire, Lou?”

“No,” he shakes his head as much as he can manage to. “Zayn’s just trying to make mac and cheese, I think.”

“Zayn’s here?” Harry tilts his head to the side, brows furrowed. “Are you guys working on something together? Is he taking care of you? Have you been eating properly? Louis—”

Louis rolls his eyes and inches toward the living room. “I’m _okay_ , mom. I’m fine.”

He tries to step around Harry and walk back to the living room, presumably, but Harry steps in his way.

“Zayn is trying to feed you burnt mac and cheese. You are so _not_ fine. When’s the last time you even showered?”

He’s not sure he wants to hear the answer to that question and Louis must not be eager to tell because he sighs, shoulders drooping.

“If I shower, will you get Zayn out of my kitchen and stop mothering me?”

Harry grins. “It’d be an honor to, sweetcheeks.”

The corner of Louis’ lips quirk up in a small smile, a quiet one that blurs the lines between _thank you_ and _God only knows what I’d be without you_. Louis steps closer to Harry and presses a warm kiss to the corner of his lips. “Thank you for coming,” he whispers.

Harry doesn’t get a chance to soak in the brush of Louis’ lips against his, much less kiss him back, before Louis is pulling away and heading to his bedroom.

By the time he does come out of the shower it’s half past eight and his living room has turned into a buffet of sorts, takeout boxes lining up every available flat surface. There’s two cases of Corona on the loveseat and the heat’s finally been turned up for the first time in weeks. His apartment almost looks liveable, for once, decorated with takeout boxes and beer and the four overgrown children giving it some life.

“Tommo!” Niall cheers the minute he spots Louis. He’s switched into a pair of more comfortable sweats, already dirtied up with sauce stains, because he’s Niall Horan, of course. “Come and eat something before you pass out, you skinny fucker.”

“Oh, fuck off, Ni,” Zayn grumbles, eyes still on the game him and Liam have got on. “We don’t all have a black hole where are stomach are meant to be.”

Louis walks over to where Harry is sitting on the floor by the fireplace and drowns out the sound of Niall and Zayn bickering like an old married couple over his wellbeing. It’s sweet that they do that and it’s nice to finally hear someone’s voice other than his own, but right now he could do with something more comfortable, instinctive.

“Hey,” Harry whispers when Louis sits down and curls himself around his body. “You smell a lot better now,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Fuck off,” Louis groans. “I only showered so I could get some cuddles out of you, asshole.”

Harry laughs, but wraps his arms around Louis anyways, lets him bury his face into his chest where his wet hair seeps into the fabric of his sweater. It’ll get uncomfortable in a few minutes, Harry knows, but he ignores it for now because Louis is soft and pliant in his arms, a rarity.  

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks. “We kind of ordered a little bit of everything so you don’t have to eat that poison Zayn calls food.”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, I’ll eat in a bit. After cuddles, though.”

Harry runs fingers through Louis’ wet hair, slowly untangling the knots with extra care and massaging at his scalp lightly. “How’s the writing been going?” he asks.

“S’okay,” Louis hums. “Zayn’s trying to get me to write more songs about fucking in clubs and dancing like it’s the last night of our lives.” He yawns. “I had to make him stop when he suggested I use the word Gucci in at least one of the choruses.”

The fire crackles behind them, Niall throws the remote at Liam’s head, and Harry’s chest shakes as he chuckles quietly into Louis’ ear.

“I should be expecting more songs about your sexcapades and gyrating, then? I think it’s only fair you give me a sneak peak.”

“If there were any sexcapades to write about, Harold, you’d be the first to know.”

“I’d rather not know about your sexcapades or lack thereof, actually.” Harry pinches him on this hip, not exactly eager to hear about Louis with a club full of men. “Your gyrating, on the other hand, is definitely something I could get on board with.”

“ _Harold_.” Louis uncurls himself to smack him across the back of the head. “Don’t objectify me, you dick. I get enough from Niall as it is.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Harry grabs at Louis, laughing, and pulls him easily onto his lap. There’s a giddy bubbling in Harry’s chest, the same feeling he gets when he’s on stage or telling a good joke. He feels lighter, lightest when he’s with Louis, when he’s got Louis in his arms. “Won’t objectify you anymore, I promise,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ neck where his skin is still just a little damp from his shower. “Just haven’t seen you gyrating in a while, is all.”

“I’m going to knee you in the balls if you say that word one more time, Harry, I swear to God.”

They collapse into a fit of laughter then, limbs tangled and bodies warm where the fire wraps them in its heat. Louis does eat, eventually, half a box of pizza and a plate of kebabs, and the five of them end up drunkenly decorating the bare Christmas tree in the corner of Louis’ living room. By the time they all go to bed it’s started snowing outside, the streets of Sacramento quiet, slowly drowning in pale snowflakes, and Harry’s body is warm, curled around Louis. His birthday is in two days, Christmas in three, and Louis’ bed - home, heart - is anything but empty for the first time in a long time.

•••••

Louis sleeps through most of the next day, about sixteen hours straight, actually. Liam gets worried around hour twelve, but Zayn convinces everyone to back off and let him hibernate a little. Like an early birthday gift, or something, because Zayn knows personally what kind of stress recording an album puts on an artist.

It had stopped snowing late in the afternoon when Harry had gone out for groceries, so the fire is still roaring and the streets are still deserted.

“Man, I really don’t think we’ll be able to go out tonight,” Niall says as he looks out the big bay windows. It’s almost nine, Louis is still passed out, and Sacramento is blanketed in snow for the first time in almost twenty years. “It looks fucking miserable out there.”

“No shit, Ni,” Zayn scoffs from where he's sat beside Liam at the kitchen island doing a jigsaw puzzle. “I’m not in the mood to go out, anyway. We’ve gotta fly out to Chicago tomorrow morning and I could do without the hangover, if it’s alright with you.”

Pouting, Niall hops up on one of the high chairs opposite Zayn and Liam and sighs, because he knows Zayn is right. Him and Zayn are flying back to their parents’ homes in Illinois and Liam is flying out to Vermont to see his family. The fact that they’d flown all the way to California for just two nights is still hard for Harry to wrap his mind around. He can’t believe the lengths these guys would go through for Louis Tomlinson, but he’s probably the last person to make judgments on that matter.

“I just feel bad, you know?” Niall says. “It’s Tommo’s birthday tomorrow and we’re all flying back home. You know how is he about his birthday and stuff.”

“Harry’s not flying out tomorrow.” Liam looks up from the puzzle to where Harry is decorating gingerbread men by the oven.

“No, I'm not,” Harry informs them. “I promised Jay I’d drive Louis down to her place in Hermosa Beach tomorrow, after we drop you guys off at the airport.”

“And does Louis know about that?” Zayn asks.

Harry catches Zayn’s eye from across the kitchen and smirks. “That’s the beauty of surprises, my dear Zaynie.”

Before Zayn can say anything, Louis walks into the kitchen, hair ruffled and drowning in an old college sweater of Harry’s.

“The beauty of what?” he yawns, scratching at his belly underneath the sweater.

And even though Harry is furthest from him, he quickly puts down the cookie in his hand and makes his way across the kitchen.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it," he shrugs it off, shaking his head. “How’re you feeling now? Did you sleep okay? Are you hungry?”

“He slept sixteen hours, Haz, get off his back,” Niall shouts from the other side of the kitchen.

Harry hears what sounds like Liam pushing Niall out of his chair, so he doesn’t bother saying anything. Louis looks up at him, eyes puffy from all the sleep, and Harry doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until his mouth is pressed against Louis’. He tastes mostly like toothpaste and sleep, but the rough hairs of his beard burn faintly against Harry’s skin and it’s so _good_.

“Hey,” Louis breathes out quietly when Harry pulls away. “What was that for?” he hums and kisses Harry once more, this time with a smile on his lips.

“Just missed you, is all,” Harry shrugs, unable to hide the blush on his cheeks.

He’s not sure what came over him, really. His body had moved before he could stop it and for some reason, kissing Louis doesn’t feel like fireworks or explosions or all the cliches he’s listened to in all the romantic comedies he’s ever watched. Kissing Louis feels like diving into a pool on the hottest day of the year, like sleeping on your own bed for the first time in months. It doesn’t involve any thinking, just a swift move of his body on its own accord for a couple of seconds of release, and Harry likes that. Likes that he can have this with Louis, something so small and simple and easy, that his body aches for instinctively.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and nuzzles his nose into the crook of his neck, clinging onto him. “I smell cookies,” he mumbles.

“I made some gingerbread men. You want one?”

“Yes, please.”

Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head and goes to grab a cookie, but Louis tugs him back and clings even tighter. Harry raises a questioning eyebrow and grins, but Louis just shrugs. “You left me all alone in bed. This is entirely your fault.”

Somehow they end up waddling over to the cookies by the oven, Louis giving up halfway and choosing to stand on Harry’s feet instead. Most of the gingerbread men are decorated and cooled off so they grab them and head over to where the rest of the boys are sat at the island, slumped over the puzzle. Louis settles without a second thought onto Harry’s lap and munches hungrily on the little men. They’ve all got little braces and stripes, but Louis chooses to say nothing of it, knowing the kind of bastard that Harry is.

“Where the hell did you guys dig this puzzle out from?” Louis asks around a mouth full of gingerbread man.

“Haz brought it,” Liam answers without looking up, brows furrowed in stern focus.

Beside him Zayn is equally as focused, hovering a piece over the board, and on his other side Niall looks like he’s about to start sweating from all the stress the puzzle is putting him under, in his ridiculous reindeer sweater and everything.

Louis tips his head back to look up at Harry. “You brought a _puzzle_ with you? Do you even know how the holidays work, H? Are you actually ninety years old? Is this what you do on your free time?”

Harry pinches his butt and frowns. “It makes for good bonding time, asshole.”

Louis yelps, laughing loudly and nearly falling out of Harry’s lap. For all the shit that he does talk, Louis does end up getting involved with the puzzle anyway. And that’s how the five of them spend the next three hours - hunched over a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle of a Christmas village, in the middle of the kitchen, munching on gingerbread men unironically decorated like Louis Tomlinson circa his days with The Rogue.

They get about a quarter of it done easily - the edges and corners - but then all the pieces start looking the fucking same and it begins to stress Niall and Louis out to the point where start they trying to _force_ the pieces to fit together.

“ _Stop that_ ,” Zayn scowls, grabbing the cardboard square out of Niall’s hand. “You’re going to fuck up all the pieces doing that. You, too, Lou!” He slaps Louis’ hand away from the puzzle. “No wonder we can’t finish this thing.”

Louis frowns, rubbing his reddened hand. God damn Zayn is feisty when it comes to jigsaw puzzles. He pouts, “It’s not _my_ fault Harry mixed up my piles and now I don’t know which ones I’ve already looked at.”

“You didn’t have ‘piles,’ Louis,” Harry scoffs. “Getting frustrated at the pieces when they don’t fit and throwing them on the floor doesn’t count as a _pile_.”

Louis had moved off of Harry’s lap about an hour ago to sit beside him so when he looks over at Harry he’s glaring, cookie crumbs in his scruffy beard and all. He looks so cute with his brows furrowed and angry pout, but Harry knows that if he says as much Louis will throw _him_ on the floor.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Louis says, leaning away from Harry as much as he can manage to before he slips out his chair. “You look like an overgrown frog, Styles, stop that shit.” But Harry grins even wider and leans even closer until he’s up in Louis’ face, the tips of their noses brushing. “I’m going to destroy this whole puzzle if you don’t cut it out, I swear to God.”

“For God’s sake, Harry, stop looking at Louis like you’re going to eat him so he doesn’t fuck up our puzzle again,” Liam huffs.

Harry, because he’s feeling generous and in the holiday spirit, laughs and finally gives in, kissing the corner of Louis’ mouth quickly before sitting back in his seat properly. From the corner of his eye he notices a light pink flush high on Louis’ cheeks, but he decides to say nothing of it.

Zayn, on the other hand, decides otherwise.

“Christ, let’s just get this thing finished before these two start fucking in front of us.”

That must have some kind of effect over Louis because he spends the rest of the night quieter, trying to help out with the puzzle less forcefully - doesn’t even throw any pieces on the floor or anything. Harry notices and because he knows Louis, just rests his palm on his thigh, squeezing once and letting it rest there. Louis shares a small smile with him, and that’s all that Harry needs.

They head to bed around two in the morning when the stress gets too much and their bones start to ache, backs feeling like they’ll be permanently hunched. They don’t finish the puzzle - the entire center of it left empty in an anxiety-ridden mess - but it was a well fought battle, Harry thinks, so there’s no shame in defeat.

 •••••

The drive to Hermosa Beach is about six hours without traffic. Louis spends the first hour going on about how excited he is to see his girls and get in the ocean and taste the sun on his skin, but ends up crashing halfway through hour two in the middle of a story about Lottie’s wedding last summer. Harry lets him because it’s his birthday and he’d heard Louis get out of bed last night to work on his music, the faint hum of the piano passing through the walls and lulling Harry back to sleep. He still wants to reprimand Louis for royally screwing up his sleep schedule, but he’ll save that for New Year’s, or something.

For now, despite the fact that he’s not used to driving all that much - at all, back in New York - Harry makes the six hour trek to Hermosa Beach with relative ease, the highways nearly empty because of the holidays. As they get closer to the coast, Harry can actually feel the shift in the weather, snow melting away and sun coming up high. He hasn’t felt the sunshine properly on his skin since early September, and it’s times like this that Harry reminds himself to spend more time outside of New York, maybe in California with Louis.

He stops just once about halfway into the drive to take a piss and get some coffee. He’d promised Jay they’d make it to dinner and Harry’s getting desperate to just get the drive over with, so he rules out more breaks.

It’s the first Christmas Harry will be spending with Louis’ family, but it doesn’t really feel like it because he’s known them for so many years now. Anne and Robin are off on an anniversary cruise, Gemma’s still in Nepal doing research, and when Harry had explained this much to Jay over the phone last week she had _demanded_ that he drive down with Louis when he comes to visit.

Harry drives up the Tomlinson-Deakin beach house a little past eight when the sun is beginning to set. The entire driveway is littered with cars; Lottie and her husband’s, Fizzy and her boyfriend’s, the elder twins’ set of Volkswagens. Harry turns the car off and turns to Louis’ sleeping figure in the passenger seat, curled into himself. His jeans have got holes all over and his sweater belongs to Zayn, but Harry hasn’t got the heart to wake him up because he looks so soft and warm and relaxed, for the first time in a long time.

But he has to, for the the sake of Father Christmas and whatnot.

“Lou,” he whispers. He undoes his seatbelt and leans over the console to do the same for Louis. “Lou, baby, gotta wake up now.” Louis stirs a little in his sleep and nuzzles into his touch when Harry brushes his hair from his face. “Lou, we’re home now.”

Louis shifts in his seat once more, slowly blinking his eyes open. “Home?” he asks in a groggy, exhausted voice.

“Yeah. C’mon, everyone’s waiting for us.” Harry presses a kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth, his scruffy chin, warm forehead, before finally pulling back. “You promised you’d show me what a real Tomlinson Christmas is like, so come on.”

Under the light glow of the streetlamp Louis' eyes smile back at Harry, something like Christmas gold flickering in his baby blues before he blinks, sits up, and it’s quickly replaced with a secretive little smirk.

“Better be able to hold your liquor, Styles, ‘cause you have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.”

 •••••

The Tomlinson-Deakin household is unlike anything Harry has ever experienced, and he spent four years at Saturday Night Live. Harry has no clue how Jay had managed to bring seven spontaneous, loud, and... _loud_ children into the world, but bless her soul for putting up with them.

The dinner is more like a buffet, a total of twelve feasting and speaking over one another, each with a different story to tell. Harry sits in between Louis and Fizzy’s boyfriend, an economics major from Stanford who does beautifully in making Harry feel extremely underqualified in all aspects of his life.

“Drink,” Louis whispers into his ear at one point. “It helps tune them out.”

Harry laughs, but listens anyway and downs his drink in one go. Between the two of them they split an entire bottle of wine over just dinner alone and another to get them through the cake and Happy Birthday singalong - led by Fizzy’s boyfriend, of course, because he also does a capella shamelessly.

By the time everyone’s sat around the fire with a cup of eggnog and Louis’ birthday gifts, Louis himself is well on his way to plastered, which makes his response to the gifts ten time more amusing. Especially considering that he himself had enforced a twenty dollar maximum spending rule.

Lottie had unironically gotten him a 'vintage' The Rogue t-shirt, Fizzy had gotten him a Costco-sized box of Coco Puffs and the final season of Breaking Bad on DVD, and both pairs of twins had teamed up to spend an entire eighty dollars on candy. In his drunken haze Louis starts bawling ridiculously when he opens up Jay and Dan’s gift - two pairs of fuzzy green socks.

“Okay, okay, I think someone’s had enough to drink,” Lottie snickers. She grabs the socks out of Louis’ shaky hands and puts them aside. “Are you good enough to put him to bed, H?”

Harry’s drunk, yes, but the eggnog’s sobered him up a little and the way the entire Tomlinson-Deakin clan stares at him like they just _know_ he’s been thinking about Louis naked for the last twenty minutes is enough to shake him out of his daze.

“Yeah, no problem. Definitely. We’ll see you guys tomorrow, yeah?”

He says his goodnights to everyone, thanks Johannah again for letting him into her home, and carries Louis - who is entirely dead weight, wailing about how he still needs to finish the Christmas jigsaw puzzle, of all things - up to the guest room they’d claimed earlier.

It takes him almost fifteen minutes to get Louis to brush his teeth, get in bed, out of his clothes, and into a pair of pajamas.

“Hate pazamas,” Louis slurs angrily, nearly kicking Harry in the face when he tries to pull off his jeans. “ _You_ don’t wear pazamas Haz, why do I gotta?”

“ _Because_ you’re a menace to society,” Harry grumbles, finally getting Louis down to just his boxers. “And it’s _pajamas_ , Lou, now let me change you into something proper.”

“Fuck your _pa-jamas_ ,” Louis wails. “If you put those on me I’m gonna kick you in the face.”

Harry huffs exhaustedly and throws the pants across the room. Louis’ sobered him up way too fast for his liking and the jetlag is starting to seriously kick in, fucking two days later because that’s the kind of luck he has.

“No pajamas, then,” Harry concedes, leaving Louis shirtless and in his boxers. He turns the lights off and strips down to his boxers before crawling onto the left side of the bed, collapsing face down and completely ignoring the air mattress left out for him on the side of the bed. “Night, Lou,” he mumbles into the pillow when he’s finally settled in and comfy.

All he gets in response is a snore.

••••

A loud crashing sound echoes in the room, immediately followed by a quieter, “ _Fuck_ , shit, fuck, fuck, fuck. _Shit_.”

Fuck is definitely the right word because it’s the _fucking_ asscrack of dawn and Harry is being woken up by none other than Louis Tomlinson.

“Wh’th’fuck are y’doin’,” Harry grumbles into his pillow, eyes still closed and tone extremely unamused.

Louis looks up from the broken vase and scattered daisies on the floor, biting his bottom lip nervously. Why the fuck does his mother keep fresh flowers in the guest rooms, anyway? Who told her to turn the house into a bed and fucking breakfast?

“What the fuck are you doing, Louis?” Harry grumbles again, more coherent this time.

“Um. Uh…”

Harry exhales long and deeply, counting to ten before finally sitting up and rubbing his eyes open. On the other side of the room by the door Louis stands in nothing but his tiny little briefs, looking like someone’s just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

Christ, Harry does not get enough out of this friendship, though the semi between his legs would disagree.

Louis bites the corner of his lip and coughs into his fist. “Just. Uh… ” He’s kind of tempted to just take the easy way out and lie… _but_ he really wants his gift. “You never gave me my birthday gift, is all. I wanted to, um, look for it. And stuff.”

Harry must have completely lost his mind on the flight to California because he actually barks a loud laugh at that and gets out of bed. “You’re an idiot,” he mumbles. “Get back in bed, you tit,” he orders, making his way to his suitcase.

Louis steps around the broken glass and flowers carefully and flops onto the bed. There’s no point in trying to be quiet at this point, he thinks, now that Harry is awake and he’s about to get his birthday gift, _finally_.

“Close your eyes.”

“Harry—”

“Just close your eyes or I’m not showing you,” Harry threatens.

Louis is tempted to pout and put up a fight, but he obeys anyways and closes his eyes. “Can’t believe you tried to get out of giving me my birthday gift…” Louis mumbles under his breath.

The bed shifts underneath him and when he opens his eyes back up he can’t help but burst into a loud laugh. Harry Styles, the sleazy fucking bastard, sits in front of him with a stupid, wide grin on his face and a six hundred dollar bottle of Scotch in his hands.

“Did you seriously re-gift a gift that _I_ gave to you?” Louis rolls his eyes, grabbing the bottle and laughing again.

“You said nothing over twenty bucks,” Harry shrugs.

“This is well over twenty bucks, H. Or does it count as spending nothing?”

“Yes, _but_.” Harry taps the bow and ribbons on the neck of the bottle. “That cost me four bucks. No foul play, you see.”

Louis looks up and Harry look so proud of himself, like he’s discovered Atlantis or spelled Wednesday correctly on the first try. “You’re such a little shit,” he chuckles, looking down at the amber bottle in his hands.

From the corner of his eye he notices Harry squirming uncomfortably on the bed, inching closer to him. “I have, uh, one another gift for you, actually,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?” Louis tilts his head to the side, excitement bubbling in his belly. “Anything else you’ve forgotten to re-gift?”

Harry rolls his eyes and the next thing Louis knows, he's crawling right onto his lap and cupping his face in his large, warm palms.

“Just let me do this, okay?” Harry whispers nervously, wide-eyed and hesitant because this could very well fuck up their entire friendship. He doesn’t think it will, is pretty sure he knows how Louis will react, but there’s always the possibility that everything might collapse on his face.

Louis gulps and nods his head, heart quickly picking up pace in his chest because he knows what Harry’s going to do and he so desperately wants him to take that chance already.

Harry presses his mouth against Louis, but unlike like usual he doesn’t just peck and pull away. He runs his tongue across Louis’ lips just barely, careful with his movements before Louis opens up his mouth and takes in his tongue. And once Harry’s finally had a taste, nothing seems like it’s enough, not even when Louis pushes him onto his back, crawls onto his stomach in one swift movement, and kisses him until Harry can’t physically breathe anymore. Harry ruts up desperately, getting the slightest bit on friction when his cock brushes just barely against the curve of Louis’ ass. He moves one hand to cup Louis’ hip and forces him to arch his back and slide down until they’re rutting against each other, cocks quickly fattening up inside their briefs.

“What. What do you want?” Harry pants into Louis’ mouth, shivering when Louis runs his tongue along the underside of his own and snaps his hips at the same time.

Louis slowly pulls himself off of Harry, chest heaving and fingers shaking where they’re fisted tightly around Harry’s hair. He tugs experimentally, remembering in the back of his mind the way that Harry normally goes loose and pliant when his hair is played with. But the reaction that he gets out of him this time is something else. Unlike usual, Harry’s eyelashes flutter against the smooth skin of his cheekbones and he moans, loud and unforgiving. Louis tugs again, harder this time, and Harry shakes underneath him, rutting up more desperately and panting, begging for more.

Louis’ thought of what Harry would be like in bed on multiple occasions, before he had even met him or anything. When he was younger and on the odd chance that he was home on a Saturday night, he’d flick on the television and catch a young, gangly Harry Styles on SNL, more often than not dressed up like an old lady or dressed in next to nothing at all. That was when Louis had first come out, too, after years of being in the closet with The Rogue, “the face of the boyband reemergence,” as they’d been referred to.

Harry is beautiful, even on the most simple, objective level, and there’s nothing that fresh-out-of-the-closet Louis Tomlinson had wanted more, for all those years, than to know what Harry Styles would taste like under his tongue, if he was loud in bed, if the dressing up was a kink that transferred to the bedroom, too.

But they’d connected immediately that first time they’d properly met in the bathroom stall of an award show. Louis had been infatuated with him helplessly from the get-go, but also found himself simultaneously protective of the younger boy, eager to share bits of his world with him, keep him strictly to himself. He’s not sure how they went from almost-strangers to best friends that kiss platonically, but Louis’ starting to think that nothing they’ve ever shared was ever platonic, not even close.

“What do you want, Lou?” Harry repeats. “What do you need?”

His mouth is red, bruised from Louis’ own, and it sparks something territorial inside him. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” Louis says before sliding all the way down Harry’s body. He nudges Harry’s legs further apart and fits himself between his legs, breath catching when he realizes that he’s finally getting to uncoil all the horrible, dirty things he’s ever thought about his best friend, all the things he’d forced into the back of his mind.

Louis cups a hand around his cock and squeezes once, giving himself a chance to catch his breath when he feels the wet patch in his briefs against his palm. It takes a tremendous amount of control that Louis’ never known he had to not touch himself further. He takes a breath and then, finally, lowers his body until his lips brush against the smooth expanse of Harry’s thigh. Louis presses a soft kiss right above his knee, and Harry immediately jerks his hips up in the air.

“Stay still for me, babe,” Louis hums into his skin, nuzzling his face and inhaling deeply. “Can you do that for me, H?”

He hears Harry exhale a shaky breath, just barely managing to croak out a, “Y- _Yes_.”

“So good for me,” Louis coos.

He presses another soft, delicate kiss to the bottom of Harry’s thigh before opening his mouth just barely and biting into the flesh. He feels Harry twitch underneath him before forcing his body to still, breathing becoming even heavier. Louis lets his teeth sink into Harry’s thigh a little deeper, a little harder, until he knows it’ll leave marks, and then pulls his teeth off to smooth over the ache with his tongue. He sucks and laps his tongue over and over, breathing through his nose to keep his heart from imploding in his chest.

When he pulls off, there’s a shiny, deep red-turned purple bruise on Harry’s thigh where his mouth just was, contrasting so prettily against the pale, fleshy meat of Harry’s quivering thigh. Louis presses his thumb into the bruise proudly, willing himself to not come right then when Harry moans, low and guttural and so fucking loud.

Louis looks up and finds Harry with a fist in his hair, head tilted back painfully and eyes squeezed shut.

“Quieter, baby,” he manages to whisper past the lump in his throat. He remembers, for just one second, that his entire family is in this house, just meters away. Unfortunately, that does nothing but make Louis’ cock twitch in excitement.

Louis doesn’t wait for him to respond before he puts his mouth on Harry’s thigh once more, teeth first and then smoothing it over with his slick tongue. He continues all the way up Harry’s thigh, making sure to press his thumb against every bruise before he moves on to the next. Harry is still and tight underneath him, but Louis doesn’t miss the way Harry’s chest is flushed right down to his cock or the way his toes are curled, nearly as pale as Harry’s fist in his hair.

When Louis’ mouth reaches the fabric of Harry’s briefs he’s tempted to lean over and mouth at Harry’s painfully hard cock until he comes right there in the tiny, tight, black piece. He decides against it, though, because he wants to see if Harry can come untouched, if he can wreck him with nothing more than just his mouth. He slips Harry’s briefs off his legs slowly and throws them beside the bed, placing the forgotten bottle of Scotch on the bedside table.

And on his knees, Louis hovers over Harry’s long, endless body, and wills himself to absolutely not come when he catches Harry’s thick cock resting temptingly against the fine curves of his abs. His cock is nearly purpled at the head, already leaking with precome. Just as Louis lowers his mouth back down to Harry’s thigh he notices how it twitches and _God_ , Louis thinks, he really wants to know how heavy that cock would feel on his tongue, how much his jaw would ache from being opened up so wide.

Instead, he settles for burying his face in the smooth, thin expanse of skin where Harry’s thigh meets his jut of his hips. He laps his tongue across the skin once and revels in the sharp, heady taste, Harry’s cock brushing against his cheek as he begins to mouth at the area. Louis grabs at his hips and makes sure to keep Harry still on the bed before he nuzzles deeper and inhales, runs his nose across the damp skin. His left cheek rubs against the still-wet, angry bruises of Harry’s thigh and his right cheek is overheated, slickened with traces of precome where it brushes over and over against Harry’s cock.

Louis decides to be fair, though, and moves his mouth to begin leaving the same wet, deep bruises into the meat of Harry’s right thigh. He makes sure his sharp canines leave their imprints, feels like he’s sucking twice as hard this time, but Louis’ always loved Harry’s legs so desperately and now that’s finally got his mouth on him, he wants to get as much out of it as he possibly can. He wants to wake up the next morning tasting Harry on his tongue, teeth and lips and mouth haunted by the reminder of Harry’s thigh quivering underneath him, all three aching to have the feel of wiry muscle under their control once more.

When he’s finally covered the insides of Harry’s thighs and the area around his cock in the same, purpling bruises, Louis sits back on his haunches and marvels at his work. His back aches like a bitch, but it’s worth it and so much more for the way his mouth has left Harry’s thighs littered with territorial little stakes of claim in the form of wet bruises outlined by the indentations of his teeth.

He’s so mesmerized by his work that he almost misses Harry’s pained whimper of, “ _Lou_.”

Louis slowly crawls up Harry’s body until he’s practically sitting on his chest, not even realizing the close proximity between his still-covered cock and Harry’s bitten, redden lips.

“S’my turn,” Harry whispers quietly, eyes glassy and determined. Louis follows Harry’s graze to where it rests on his cock, notices from the corner of his eyes how he licks his lips and bites back a moan.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks. “I don’t. I don’t wanna hurt you, or anything.”

Despite the lust-drunk haze that he seems to be in, Harry doesn’t fail in controlling himself long enough to slip his hands inside Louis’ briefs, tugging them down and squeezing at his cheeks. Louis is firm and round in his hands, filling his entire palm the same way that Harry had always known he could. He cups at the soft curve of Louis’ cheeks and lets his touch linger properly, reveling in the way Louis grinds down on his chest, subconsciously begging for a little friction on his cock.

Louis finally gets the message, it seems, because he slides off Harry’s chest to pull off his briefs and climbs back on immediately, this time higher up. He wraps a fist around his cock and tugs it once, twice, before lining it up against the soft plush of Harry’s lips.

“You sure?” he asks one last time, nervous because Harry is his still best friend underneath all of this heady sexual tension and he doesn’t want to give that up for choking him with his cock.

Harry doesn’t respond, instead sticks his tongue out and kitten licks at the head of Louis’ cock, catching the small drips of precome on the tip of his tongue as he circles it around the slit over and over until Louis nearly collapses over his head.

“Want you to hold onto the headboard,” Louis pants. “Can you do that for me?”

Harry obediently goes to wrap his fists around the iron and opens his mouth up eagerly, until his jaw starts to ache. “Don’t go easy on me,” he says. “Want you to properly fuck my mouth, yeah?”

Louis feels like he might explode. Harry’s given him so much over the years, so much that he can’t put into words or return on an equal level, but he’d never thought that Harry would give him this, himself, in its entirety and so unabashedly. He isn’t sure if this is Harry just being the kind of giving, go-with-the-flow person that he is, but he’s pretty sure there’s a very clear-cut line between generosity and letting your best friend fuck your mouth.

Louis takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He wraps one hand around a fistful of Harry’s hair, the other around the base of his cock and slowly, he feeds his cock into the warm heat of Harry’s mouth, centimeter by centimeter until his nose brushes against his lower stomach and Louis is tugging him forward by his hair. Once he’s inside, all the way down, Louis tangles his other hand in Harry’s curls, too, and like that he slowly pulls himself in and out, letting Harry catch his breath before he quickens his pace and feels Harry’s throat tighten around the head of his cock. He’s going to die, Louis thinks to himself. Harry’s going to be the end of him; the way he runs his tongue against the veins on the underside of cock; the way he breathes through his nose and the warm tuft of air hits Louis’ wet cock every time he pulls out, a sensation that has Louis curling his toes, shivering uncontrollably.  

It makes him relentless, the way Harry just takes and takes, hums for _more_ even with the way he’s choking up and tears are welling in the corners of his eyes. Louis fucks into his mouth over and over, thrusting inside Harry’s warmth, feeding it down his throat until his mouth is full of cock and Louis can press his fingers against his hollowed cheeks, feel the round curve of his cock pounding at Harry’s throat.

He’s so fucking close, is the thing, and he doesn’t want to stop, so he doesn’t for as long as he can manage. He lets Harry suck and lap at the head, bruised lips brushing against the slit, before he can’t take it anymore and shoves himself back inside without warning, giving Harry only seconds to adjust before he comes down his throat, cock pulsing and heavy on his tongue.

He feels his orgasm wash over him and Harry’s scalp must ache by now with how harshly Louis’ been grabbing at it, tugging it and moving his entire head around his cock with fistfuls of his hair. Louis feels his muscles loosening, body going soft and pliant, relieved, finally, to get rid of the tension that’s haunted his bones for years.

He slides out of Harry’s mouth slowly and does his best to sit up, regain control over his limbs. Just as he’s opening his eyes and inching down Harry’s chest he feels something warm and wet his the curve of his ass, right in the between his cheeks. His breath catches when he realizes that Harry’s just come, entirely untouched. Something like awe and pride runs through Louis’ veins and he finds himself slipping his fingers between his cheeks, gathering the come onto his fingers. When Harry slowly opens up his eyes Louis doesn’t hesitate to press his fingers inside his mouth, pushing down on his tongue. Harry licks his come off Louis’ fingers eagerly, eyelashes fluttering and humming, so pleased, when Louis does eventually slip his fingers out and replaces it with his mouth. He cups Harry’s jaw and kisses him with an open mouth, a loose tongue, and hungrily because it’s been so long - too long - since he’s kissed him. And if this happens to be the last time he gets to do so, he wants to make sure it’s worth it.

Eventually, though, he does pull off and kiss his way down Harry’s torso, a straight line of butterfly kisses until he reaches the wet patch of come that he licks up eagerly, leaving Harry’s chest nearly spotless. When he’s finally pleased with himself Louis’ crawls back up and collapses to the right of Harry’s body, resting on his side.

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry pants after a moment, still trying to catch his breath.

Louis bites his bruised bottom lip and grins, focusing on the silhouette of Harry’s form; the slope of his nose, the bow of his lips, the long line of his bobbing throat where his cock just was.

Unbelievably beautiful, even on the most basic, objective level there is.

“My thighs burn from your scruff,” Harry says after a few moments with a dopey smile on his face.

“Shit,” Louis mumbles worriedly. He’s about to sit up, apologize and get some lotion or something, when Harry grabs him and pulls him to his chest, giggling.

“No, don’t. Like the way it feels.”

As if to prove a point, Harry wraps a leg around Louis and makes sure to push the bruised, beard-burned insides of his thigh against the dip of his waist and curve of back. Goosebumps come up all across Louis’ skin and he buries his faces into the crook of Harry’s neck, presses a handful of warm, open-mouthed kisses to his skin.

“Happy birthday, Lou,” Harry whispers once they’ve both caught their breaths and adjusted to the realization of what they’ve just done.

“Thank you, Haz.” Louis yawns, the last twenty-four hours finally catching up with him. “Love you the most,” he mumbles sleepily.

The sun has already risen, there are still shards of glass on the floor, and they’ve probably woken up Louis’ entire family on Christmas morning with their sexcapade, but the way that Harry holds Louis in his arms, anchoring him close to his chest like he’s waited years to do so, makes Louis think that everything’s alright, no matter, especially when Harry whispers back a sleepy _always loved you most_ and kisses the top of his head, drifting off.

 •••••

The next morning, even though he can barely speak, Harry slides into the seat next to Louis at dinner and whispers in his ear, “ _You should probably fuck me on a more regular basis, I think._ ”

And when Louis spits out wine all over his food, getting a proper yelling from his mother and disgusted sisters, Harry just sits back with a smile on his face and squeezes Louis’ thigh underneath the table.

 

 •••••

By the time Louis’ album comes out the following April he’s long since moved back to New York on a more permanent basis. He keeps his places in Sacramento and LA, though, and Harry moves into Louis’ apartment in the Upper East Side around the time of his birthday.

The news of their relationship, on the other hand, isn’t exactly a shock for anyone. It’s been mostly speculation for years anyways, but now that Louis drops by the show - usually just to sit in the audience and watch the craziness of it all unfold before his eyes or to remind Harry how to breathe - and there are pictures of them napping in Central Park, riding the train in the mornings, attending red carpet events in matching suits, it’s kind of the most obvious and equally unnecessary confirmation ever.

Unsurprisingly, Niall is their biggest fan, absolutely refusing to shy away from telling embarrassing stories about the two of them to all the guests that stop by and fitting in as many dirty, overly-sexualized puns that he can manage to do so during the show.

It doesn’t hurt their ratings, which also doesn’t come as a surprise. In fact, even though Harry chooses to keep his work and personal life separate, his relationship brings him even more viewers, to the point where he’s surpassing Nick’s numbers on a regular basis. But even when the frenzy over their relationship dies down the viewers stick around, so Harry thinks he must be doing something right besides getting fucked by Louis Tomlinson every night.

The week of Louis’ album release, Harry invites him on to perform a song each night and star in a few sketches. They call it _Tomlinweek_ , because Harry is nothing if not a fearless bastard with an affinity for puns and Louis Tomlinson.

 •••••

“Welcome back everybody!” Harry yells over the cheers of the audience. He waits for them to quiet down. Fuck, he can barely keep the stupid grin off his own face to begin with.

“Well, today is Friday,” he reads off his cue card, “and that’s usually when I catch up on some personal stuff, you know, I check my inbox, return some emails. And of course, send out thank you notes.” Harry pauses for effect, but also to give the audience a chance to voice themselves once more. “I was running a little behind today so I thought if you guys wouldn’t mind, I’d just like to write out my weekly thank you notes right now. Is that cool?”

The crowd does another round of cheering and just as they’re about to quiet down, their voices get even louder, every one of them getting on their feet. Harry knows what all the commotion is about, but it doesn’t mean that when he turns around and spots Louis walking over to his desk his breath doesn’t catch and he doesn’t cheer just as wildly as the crowd on the inside.

“Louis Tomlinson, everybody!” Harry laughs.

He stands up and asks Louis what he’s doing - doesn’t he know they’re in the middle of the show right now? Just like they’d written out.

“Well,” Louis shrugs for the camera, “I’ve got this album that just came out today—” the crowd explodes once more, “I thought—would you mind if I just sit down and write my thank notes with you, for the sake of time?”

Harry says yeah, of course, and the two of them sit down side by side at his desk in front of all the lights and the cameras and the noise. Dan on the keyboard begins to play some thank you note writing music and from there they go off.

Harry thanks compasses, the phrase “it is what it is,” and the word _oops_.

Louis thanks English ships, butterflies, and the word _hi_.

For the last thank you note, Louis keeps his head down and tries his best to bite back a grin as he reads, “Thank you, Styles, for making me egg on toast everyday.”

And the cameras must catch the way Harry freezes up with his eyes on Louis, because that isn’t on the cue cards, that wasn’t what they practiced during the run-through, and that isn’t what they wrote out this morning.

Louis finally looks up and when bright green settles on hazy blues, the noise of the crowd is drowned out. Harry wants to mouth _I love you_ real quick, but he knows the cameras will catch it. Instead, Louis knocks his knee against Harry’s, drops a hand to his thigh under the desk, away from the cameras, and motions to the final thank you note waiting for him.

Harry snaps out of it. The sound of Dan on the keyboard fills his ears and he goes to read his last thank you note. It’s supposed to be a thank you to the number seventeen, but instead Harry finds himself saying, with an incredulous shake of the head, “Thank you, Louis Tomlinson, for the six hundred bottle of Scotch that I still have yet to share with you.”

The crowd cheers wildly even though they’re not in on the joke.

“Stay tuned, we’ll be right back with more late night!” Harry finally says into the camera.

The lights go off.

**Author's Note:**

> my apologies (always) for the mistakes!! self-editing is a bitch and this probably wasn't worth the read!!  
> if you want to watch clips from Late Night with Jimmy Fallon [here's their YouTube account!](http://www.youtube.com/channel/UC8-Th83bH_thdKZDJCrn88g) i strongly suggest watching any and all clips of Justin on the show
> 
> [tumblr](http://tornorrows.tumblr.com/)


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